


Nighthawks

by neuralhandshake (bonk)



Category: Gotham (TV), Gotham Central
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonk/pseuds/neuralhandshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, unfinished drabble. Renee meets a cook at the diner and learns that cook is the someone better that she deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighthawks

**Author's Note:**

> A WIP. The final version will be published... eventually.

The panging chimes of the bells knocking against glass, signifying the arrival of a new customer, rang through the diner. Light from the streetlamps and a cold rush of stale Gotham air at midnight followed Renee in.

Sirens wailed far off, distant noise that Renee was grateful to not be attached to. Work was over, and a case that she and Cris had been working on was now in black. The glares of red on the MCU board were retreating, even if they all knew it was temporary.

Cris had left work early to get home in time for a date with a new woman he was seeing. Renee, knowing full well the importance of this relationship with this Dore that Cris never stopped talking about, had insisted he spend more time with her. And since she was the primary for the case, she had to do the paperwork anyway.

The end result, however, was a midnight clock out and a headache from a lack of food other than what the vending machines at Central could provide.

It had became a bit of a tradition after closing a case for Renee and Cris to hit up the diner together and ‘celebrate’ by choosing an item off the menu guaranteed to nudge one several feet closer to heart attack by age forty. Renee wasn’t one to break tradition, Cris or no, midnight or otherwise.

Renee scuffed her boots against the doormat and glanced around, surveying her surroundings. Another sort of tradition, gained by coppers with chips on their shoulders. Two teenagers, corner booth, far wall. Male, Caucasian, brown hair and green eyes. Female, Caucasian, blonde, green eyes. Early teens, breaking curfew. Let it slide.

One older male, late sixties. Gray hair, frayed tan sweater. Hispanic. Sitting nearest to the door.

Neither group seemed too likely to start anything or rob the place, so the detective in Renee was safe to settle down, at least for a bit.

"I’ll take care of this one, Carlos! Watch the oven, will you?"

The bells had summoned a woman from the kitchen, dressed in a chef’s coat and hat. She had brown hair and a few piercings lining the rim of each ear, ending with a loop in both lobes. She was busying her hands in a towel, brushing off flour. “Hey there.” she greeted, watching Renee take a seat at one of the stools by the counter. “Coffee?”

"Black." Renee answered with a nod and a smile. She didn’t recognize the woman, not that she came here often enough to know every face in the diner. This haunt was more Bullock’s than hers. But at midnight, there weren’t many places open.

The woman produced a steaming cup of fresh black diner coffee, setting it down in front of Renee. She pulled a scratch pad and pencil from the front of her apron, assuming the universal role of being ready for an order. “My name’s Dee,” she said with a warm, practiced, welcoming smile that had a weird, fuzzy effect on Renee. “What can I get you?”


End file.
